I am from libraries,

from shiny hardcovers and worn paperbacks.

I am from the neighbor’s squeaky swingset,

Green seats, rusted chains,

The setting of a thousand shared stories and kingdoms.

I am from the cottonwoods,

The soft seeds soaring in the Kansas wind to tickle our noses.

I’m from mega-churches and minivans,

From Celinda’s small town and David’s many neighborhoods.

I’m from private-school indoctrination that kept me “in”

And a hidden identity that kept me “out,”

From bubble-wrapped protective prejudice and a distrust of progress and change.

I’m from the grief of spiritual deconstruction

And the joy of rebirth and new knowing.

I’m from suburban Wichita and lush Ohio valleys and downtown Oklahoma City,

From spicy, hearty chili and soft, sweet cinnamon rolls.

I am from the love and relief in my husband’s embrace,

From the choice to be who I needed when I was younger.

I am the new generation in my family — the safe space in the organized chaos.

I am from the hurt of conformity and the honesty of rebellion.

I flip through the leaves of my literature,

I listen to the leaves of the cottonwoods,

And I reflect and I learn and I accept

That where I’m from is nowhere near as lovely as where I’ll go to next.